


Always

by Fionakevin073



Series: Long Live All the Magic We Made [16]
Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: F/M, Love, Mentions of possible infertility, Scandal, alternative universe, elopement, mentions of divorce
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 04:39:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14783733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fionakevin073/pseuds/Fionakevin073
Summary: Where Anne and Charles get married when he comes to France.





	Always

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! Sorry it’s been so long. This is for Kara, who asked me to write a one-shot about Anne and Charles getting married instead of him and Mary. Enjoy! Thank you for all of your support. I hope u guys enjoy. And I know that historically Mary married the King of France in 1514, which would make Anne’s oldest age only 13 years old. So lets just ignore that and age her up lol. Hope you guys enjoy. I kinda left the ending ambiguous because I really like this idea and might write more on it as a standalone one shot. Who knows. Please comment.  
> Until next time,  
> Fionakevin073

i. 

 

Anne is still in France when Queen Anne dies. 

 

Anne had been relatively fond of her mistress and she had been fond of her also, so she mourns not simply for decorum. The court festivities are stopped for a few weeks and life seems to drag on. There is nothing for her and the ladies to do anymore; they have no mistress now and it seems inappropriate to laugh, gossip or dance like before. 

 

So they all walk around and read and exchange serious yet slightly wondering looks with each other, waiting for life to start again. 

 

It is a month after the Queen’s death that Anne first hears the rumours. 

 

“One of the most beautiful princesses in Christendom I hear,” she hears Cecily, one of the Queen’s maid of honours whisper. 

 

“What are you whispering about?” Anne asks in french, her heart quickening. 

 

“The King is to marry Princess Mary of England.” 

 

“But he’s old enough to be her grandfather!” 

 

“I know,” Cecily whispers back, her brown eyes wide with excitement. “But at least we’ll have a new mistress soon and life will come back to court. It’ll give us something to do.” 

 

Anne would soon find out it would give her a lot more than that. 

 

ii. 

 

Princess Mary—Queen Mary, she admonishes herself, is as beautiful as people claim. With her long red locks and piercing blue eyes, she is easily more beautiful than their former Queen. But she is unhappy. Anne can see through her strained smiles and watery gaze though she admittedly puts up a valiant effort. 

 

Anne can’t really blame her for being unhappy. The King is old. Too old. And desperate for an heir and if she failed to deliver. . . 

 

Anne nearly shuddered at the thought. 

 

She looks around the room at the celebrations, at the people laughing and dancing and she catches sight of a man standing a little further from everyone else, a small yet charismatic smile on his face. He’s handsome. Possibly the most handsome she’s ever met. She’s drawn to him— hell, she can’t stop looking at him. 

 

She doesn’t really want to stop. He has fine, english cheekbones and pink lips to match and his eyes-goodness his eyes are an extraordinary shade of blue that take her breath away even though she’s standing across the room. Charles Brandon, she thinks his name was, the Duke of Suffolk. Her father and sister had mentioned him in their letters. Her sister had managed to spare a detail or two for him in the midst of her ranting about the King, now that she was his mistress. Her father of course, had mentioned him because of his connections and even now she can imagine him whispering in her ear, urging her to get closer to him. _He’s unmarried._ It had been something he had conveniently mentioned. 

 

There’s no way her father would urge her to charm a powerful duke if there was no profit in it for her. For them. For him, really. 

 

She barely even notices that he’s staring back. Or, more accurately, that he’s caught _her_ staring. She doesn’t blush because yes, while Anne may be slightly charmed by him she’s smarter than that. She’s better than that. He winks at her playfully, taking a sip out of his cup and all she does is raise an eyebrow before turning her back to him. 

 

And while she may not see it, she knows he’s intrigued.

 

iii. 

 

She doesn’t see him until two days afterwards and well, if she’s dressed in some of her nicest gowns that has nothing to do with him. 

 

At all. 

 

She’s playing a card game with a group of men, giggling playfully at their exaggerated groans as she wins round after round. 

 

“Your grace!” one of the men exclaims suddenly and Anne feels a shiver run up her spine as she turns her head, immediately meeting his intense gaze. His eyes are on her and her alone. “I see you’re all slowly using all of your money to this lovely woman over here.” His voice is deep and joking. It takes effort to not look at him. Anne feels her lips twitch upwards at the comment and tries to stifle it before he notices. 

 

“Your grace,” she greets, bowing her head appropriately, “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

 

He gently grabs a hold of her hand—much to her surprise— and presses gentle kiss onto her palm. “Likewise,” he says lowly, “And who might you be?” 

 

Anne smiles secretively. 

 

“Anne,” she declares, “Lady Anne Boleyn.” 

 

— 

 

It escalates from there. 

 

Secret glances across crowded rooms. Walks down hallways. Brandon more often than not ‘accidentally’ bumps into her at least once a day and on more than one occasion he brings her a flower, especially roses, which she had told him were her favourite. He gave her a beautiful ruby ring a week ago. It’s merely an entertaining game of courtly love, she knows this and she is genuinely enjoying their flirtation. Nothing too scandalous of course. Nothing that would ever jeopardise her reputation. 

 

Though she loves her sister dearly, she would never make the same choices as her. 

 

Anne is walking through the gardens nearly three weeks after they first met when they have their most significant encounter yet. She’s wearing a low cut, forest green dress that clings comfortably on her skin and her most comfortable pair of slippers. Her hair is, for once, kept down, as Mary had instructed her maid of honours to do that day. She’s happy walking under the warm French sun, the smell of roses fresh under her nose when—

 

A hand yanks her behind one of the tall walls of the hedge maze and a scream forms on her throat as she— 

 

“It’s me, Lady Anne.” 

 

Her eyes widen. 

 

“What are you doing?” she asks loudly. He was standing too close to her for comfort. His proximity made her heart race wildly. He blinks at her words and it’s one of the first times she’s seen him looking serious. 

 

“I—I—“ 

 

He bends down and kisses her fully on the lips. 

 

Anne can feel her eyes widen with surprise as she stares at his closed lids, noticing how his eyelashes were surprisingly light. He kisses her even more deeply and then she has no choice but to close her eyes, even if she can only enjoy this for a moment. Kissing him sends a warmth through her chest that she’s never felt before. Every inch of her skin is on fire. 

 

He pulls back—much to her disappointment— and begins to press kisses on the side of her neck. 

 

“Anne I want you,” he whispers against her skin, effectively snapping her out of her state. 

 

“No,” she says suddenly, scrambling to get away from him. “I will not dishonour myself your grace.” 

 

“This has nothing to do with honour! I— I desire you so greatly Anne. I’ve never felt this way with a woman ever before. I dream of you—I ache for you. I will bring you back to England with me if you so wish it— you can be my official mistress Anne. I can not rest until I know you desire me too.” 

 

“Your official mistress,” she repeats, trying to blink back her tears of anger. “My sister is called the great prostitute by _everyone._ I can’t be your mistress. I won’t be your mistress.” She watches his jaw clench with frustration and his eyes screw shut. “You say these pretty words to all the women your grace. I am sure your fixation with me will pass. I am sorry to have caused you pain.” 

 

Then she turns on her heel and walks away with all the dignity she has left. 

 

iv. 

 

The next time she sees him is the day after. 

 

The English are leaving now that the Princess has been wedded and bedded and the King is throwing one final, fabulous feast to see them off. Anne aches sitting there, a ghost of someone else’s lips on her own. She doesn’t catch sight of him— it is a Masquerade after all. She sits with the other ladies in waiting and dances when asked and laughs enough to hide that anything is wrong but all the while she thinks of Charles and—

 

“Lady Anne.” 

 

How he managed to sneak up on her without her noticing, she’s not sure. What she is sure of however, is how her heart skips a beat at the sound of his voice and how something stirs in her belly. Something warm. 

 

“Your grace.” 

 

He asks her to dance at some point, and Anne ignores the looks of her friends as she agrees and follows him to the floor. Their hands join as they move together and she thinks she can feel his heartbeat by his wrist. Their eyes meet and their gaze is strong— so strong she can barely breathe. The music is loud and colourful and when it stops she doesn’t even notice. 

 

It’s little surprise that she finds herself with him in an abandoned hallway. She’s on fire— her insides are burning, her throat is burning and the warmth in her stomach. She doesn’t want to stop kissing him. She doesn’t. 

 

“I can’t,” she whispers when he pulls away, leaning her forehead against his. “The only person whom I will give my maidenhead is my husband, Charles.” 

 

Then he says two words which change her world forever. 

 

“Marry me.” 

 

“What?” she can’t think. 

 

“I am mad for you. If this is the only way we can be together, then so be it. Marry me, Anne.” 

 

He presses a gentle kiss to her fingers. 

 

“Marry me.” 

 

v. 

 

_Dear my lord father,_

 

_I trust you have heard of my marriage to Lord Charles Brandon. I know it was sudden and that I did not receive your approval or permission, but I hope you manage to find it within yourself to forgive me and Charles. He makes me happy father, and he is eager to meet you and set things right. We have an audience with the King as soon as we arrive back and I would truly wish to see you. I suspect I will see Mary at court._

 

_Write to me._

 

_Your faithful daughter,_

_Anne Brandon_

 

“I hope he will reply,” Anne declares, turning to look at Charles from where he lay on the bed, naked as the day he was born. She was equally bare, though she at least had the decency to slip on Charles’s nightshirt from the ground. It was long and baggy, but she felt comfortable in it. 

 

“I hope so too,” Charles commented, “I wish to meet the father of my wife.” 

 

Anne smiles at his word; wife. She was still growing used to it. 

 

She moved to lie next to him, landing on the bed with a heap. “I hope he does not disown me. I haven’t seen him in years.” The confession darkens the light mood and she fingers the necklace her father gave her all those years ago, and stares down at the linen. A hand cups her cheek and forces her to look into his eyes. _They really are magnificent,_ she thinks, awestruck by their intensity and their passion. 

 

“ _I_ will care for you. I will make sure you are loved and taken care of. You are a Duchess, Anne. My wife. I will let no one hurt you. Never doubt it.”  

 

“Thank you.” She leans forward and kisses him gently on the lips, content. 

 

vi. 

 

The King does not seem to care much about decorum in regards to her marriage to Charles. He greets her husband with a sunny smile and a tight hug and though there is still a smile on his face when he turns to look at her, there is something that lurks in his eyes, a seriousness. Almost as if he were appraising her somehow. 

 

“Your majesty.” 

 

She curtsies appropriately, her heart racing in her chest as she stares at the ground. 

 

“Lady Anne,” he greets, urging her to rise from her curtsy. 

 

She meets his eyes— also a heart-shattering blue- and instantly understands why so many women fall under his spell. He is handsome. Incredibly so. 

 

“Ah, you are just as beautiful as your sister. It is easy to see why my dear Charles is so in love with you.” 

 

“Thank you, your majesty.” 

 

His smile is charming. 

 

Almost too charming. 

 

He and Charles leave her soon afterwards, but not before the King sends her one last, piercing look.

 

— 

 

It doesn’t take long for her father to visit her in her chambers. 

 

And he does not react at all as she feared. 

 

As a matter of fact, he is ecstatic at the news. 

 

“My daughter, married to the King’s closest friend and a Duchess,” he kept on telling her, “Oh how I am so very proud.” As though marrying Charles had taken some profound skill. “There will be a small punishment of course,” he mentions off-handedly, once he has calmed down. “The King can not allow all of his nobles to go marrying without permission, so I expect a small fine or banishment from court for a month or so, just so you can return to your estates.” 

 

“Charles won’t be happy about that,” she comments lightly, sharing a smile with her sister. 

 

“No I presume not,” her father agrees, before eyeing her critically. 

 

“Are you with child yet?” 

 

“Father!” Mary cries and Anne can feel her shoulders tighten defensively. 

 

“No,” she replies carefully, “Not yet.” 

 

“Then that should be something to work on, you don’t want to give him a reason to divorce you.” 

 

_He would never,_ she wants to say. But her father doesn’t know Charles like she does. Doesn’t know that he has dimples on the back of his spine and that the scar on his thigh is from him falling of a horse as a child. He doesn’t know that when he laughed too hard he would snort and that when he first bedded her he treated her as gently as a flower. But her father only knew the womanising, carefree Charles who took no responsibility. 

 

He didn’t know Charles. 

 

He didn’t. 

 

— 

 

Sure enough, Anne and Charles are banished from court for two months. Charles isn’t too happy about it of course, but she can tell that he is relieved that the punishment wasn’t worse. Their estates are beautiful. Absolutely stunning. With large, green gardens filled with roses and tulips and a castle that was far bigger than Hever. This was her home now. 

 

“Welcome home,” Charles whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. 

 

There’s a lot of work for her to do. Charles rarely— if ever— came to his estates for a long duration, and so while they are beautiful, there’s somewhat of an empty quality to them. It does not feel like a home.  So she works on restoring the castle to glory. She has lavish carpets and furniture brought in from the storage, has rooms dusted and polished until the floors shine like diamonds. Charles is amused by her actions but lets her do as she pleases, restless in his own home. 

 

Anne also misses court life as well. Her and Charles were similar in that regard; they both thrived at court. But they make do with each others company. It feels almost like a dream really. They laugh, play and make love. They don’t argue, even though they are both stubborn. It’s only good. There’s only ever good when she’s with him. 

 

But one significant thing occurs when she and Charles are in exile. 

 

The King stops inviting Mary to his bed. 

 

The news isn’t surprising, but a part of Anne feels guilty, as though she is to blame for this because of her affiliation with Charles. 

 

“Do you think that had something to do with it?” Anne asks Charles, the night she receives the letter from Mary. 

 

Charles looks rather serious as he ponders over this. 

 

“I don’t know. Maybe. Henry has always been like this. He blows hot, he blows cold.” 

 

At Anne’s tightened expression, he presses a comforting kiss on her shoulder. 

 

“If we did have anything to do with it, we only spurred on the inevitable, my love. Your sister will not be left in disgrace, I will make sure of it.” 

 

“It’s perhaps a blessing she did not become with child,” Anne comments, before immediately wondering if she spoke too freely. Something flickered in Charles eyes. Something she didn’t quite catch. 

 

“Perhaps,” is all he says on the matter. 

 

vii. 

 

They are allowed back to court eventually, and it makes Anne laugh to see the delight on her husband’s face when he announces the King’s forgiveness. 

 

“Finally!” he had exclaimed, before he collapsed onto the bed with the letter still in his hands. 

 

Anne is excited to return to court — she is. But Anne is not a lady in waiting now; she is a wife of a Duke, one of the most powerful men in the realm and the King’s closest friend. She can afford to make no errors in the eyes of others. 

 

Charles reassures her and soothes her doubts with kisses and caresses. 

 

But Anne is not merely worried about that. She is not with child. Her moon’s blood has come every month without fail. It worries her slightly. She knows Charles loves her, but there is a small part of her that realises he would be far more willing to set her aside if she did not produce an heir — or even a child for that matter. 

 

Regardless, they arrive at court, and while it is not as glamorous as the French court, it is still splendid. Charles gifts her several gorgeous gowns and jewels before they depart and Anne makes sure to wear them all. 

 

Anne makes sure to act appropriately. She makes sure her dresses are not as low cut as they were before she wed, so as to not spark rumours. She makes friends with the ladies of the court, and introduces them to the French Hood’s she is so fond of. 

 

“You’re making quite a stir you know,” Charles tells her one morning.

 

The sun has just begun to rise. Anne can feel Charles’s heartbeat against her back as he slings an arm over her waist. 

 

“Am I?” she questions, turning over to face him. 

 

She places her hands on his chest and strokes the soft skin she finds. 

 

“All of the court is jealous,” he informs her. “They all tell me of how my wife is the most interesting and entertaining creature they have ever come across.” 

 

Anne giggles at that; but she is beyond relieved to hear that most of Charles acquaintances approve of her. 

 

“I just want to make you proud of me,” she says quietly, after her laughter stops. 

 

The look in his eyes makes her breath hitch. 

 

“You always do,” he tells her, before kissing her fiercely. 

 

viii. 

 

However much the court may like her, the Queen dislikes her in equal measure. 

 

Mayhaps Anne is exaggerating. The Queen is always courteous whenever Anne is near her. She does not make snide comments about her inferior birth like some other ladies. But Anne catches her watching her while she dances or talks with Charles. When she speaks to the ladies of the court about the French Court or when she surprises the French Ambassador with her fluency in his language when Charles introduces her to him. 

 

The Queen is always looking at her, and Anne does not like the look she sees. 

 

But Anne has no desire to shame the Queen; perhaps it was because her sister used to bed the King. Anne has Charles and his love and that is enough for her. She will not deny that she had ambitions in her youth, but Charles fulfilled them when he married her. She is one of the highest ladies in the land with a husband who loves her and that is enough. 

 

It is. 

 

“The Queen does not like me,” Anne tells Charles one day. 

 

She doesn’t mean to. 

 

One moment they’re preparing for the upcoming banquet in the gardens and the next Anne is blurting out the words. 

 

Charles turns to look at her, and Anne is somewhat taken aback at the lack of surprise on his face. 

 

“You knew,” she says, her tone half-accusing. 

 

“I suspected,” he admits. 

 

Anne waits. 

 

“Henry mentioned how the Queen commented on your charms and youth. Things she desperately lacks.” 

 

“Charles!” Anne admonishes. 

 

He shrugs nonchalantly. 

 

“Do not mistake me, Queen Catherine is a good and honest Queen. She is pious and faithful to Henry, which is more than I can say of him. But she is no longer youthful. She can no longer bare any children.” A dark look passes in his eyes. 

 

“What is it?” Anne questions, moving towards him. “Talk to me.” 

 

Charles hesitates for a mere moment before telling her about all of it. About how Henry was thinking of divorcing Katherine to produce another heir. Anne listens as quietly as she knows best as her husband pours out his soul. 

 

“Dear God,” Anne murmurs. 

 

“These are troubling times Anne,” Charles tells her. “I can feel it. Our country will be divided.” 

 

If Anne were any other woman, she would shiver and nod her head obediently. But Anne is no other woman. 

 

Anne is, to put it quite plainly, Anne. 

 

“You will always have me,” Anne declares, holding onto his hand. “Always.” 

 

A hint of humour is evident in his smile. 

 

“I’m counting on it.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
